The Fall
by Leider Hosen
Summary: <html><head></head>After every Fall, there is Darkness. In every Darkness, a Spark. In every Spark, there is Potential. In all Potential, there is a Realization. With every Realization, comes Glory. After Glory- comes the Fall...</html>
1. The Ruins of the World

A/N: I'mma back muther fukrs!

This is purely fan speculation and theorizing, needless to say my ideas may be different than yours. I will recreate the lore as close as possible, but since Souls is vague there will be massive holes to be filled by me, debacle as you want in the reviews, but please don't bicker over who's right and who's wrong. This is also only a small taste of things to come, this will be a big huge massive project alongside Dragon Souls :3

Lore master of the millennium: Mason Tims. His theories are usually way better than mine and he will proof most of this story in all likelihood. Also I don't have omniscience, if you want to make sure I cover your favorite character/place/event please leave a review asking me to so I don't forget :3

Rated T so people will notice it, should be rated M for explicit blood and gore, demon slaying, implied sexual content, then actual sexual content later (though it _will_ be changed to M by that point). Please don't be a hatemaster fundestroyer and report me, I am only doing my so/so job :3

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><p>Far in the east is a land torn apart by war. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say in the wreckage of the world is a land in the east. One can imagine the anarchy and devastation that swept over the battlements of the killing field, hundreds of thousands of soldiers slaughtered by one another, the slate grey mud running crimson around the greyed, bloated corpses under the overcast sky, the faintest rays of dull sunlight breaking through the torn sheets of cloud, illuminating the mist rising from the ground, cloaking the land.<p>

Many of them were dead long before they ever joined the war, the Darksign upon them dissipating as the hollow's souls finished being drawn out, though many of the wretched things were up from the ground, their armor clacking and shifting as they made a slow, jagged lumbering over the dirt, their moans the only thing to indicate anything lived here at all.

The Dark had made a ruin of all the kingdoms and lands, the hollows outnumbering the sane, the desperate overpowering the moral, until only deadlands like this were left.

Or at least, that is what a glance would say…

Deep in the rotting field, crows feasting and making a racket as they scattered from the hollow figures, was a lone man, his wooden sandals making a low clack click upon the armor of the fallen warriors as he gingerly stepped over their weapons and arms. There was a change on the wind, somewhere a beacon of light had been lit, and humans, small but enduring as insects, were drawn like moths toward it.

There was no sign as to where it would take them or what their role would be, but the dark was passing, and the few mortals who had survived were emerging into the sunrise, searching for the unknown.

The easterner, one of the very last of his kind, scanned the environment, his small, intense eyes wary of hollows as he pulled his ragged cloak so tight to himself it almost tore, as though the scrap would provide him the faintest protection. In his mind, he considered grabbing one of the numerous rusty arms in case one of the hollows came for him, though the time since the ancient battle had left them near useless anyhow.

But, as he sniffed with cold, wheezing hard and stumbling further along in the rot of his people, he couldn't conceive stopping, the very notion seemed to eat at him from the inside as he was pulled along. There was something here, in waiting, its voice wailed to him in despair and loneliness, but he was the only one around to hear it, it seemed.

Then, he saw it, ahead, upon the crest of a hill, his pace increasing until he was ready to pass out with exhaustion, until he finally gave in and collapsed at the base, his hands turning red, and then ghastly white as they pressed into the frigid quagmire beneath him, sinking so that he feared the earth itself would swallow him.

He lay prostrated a few minutes, before he drug himself up, gazing upon the source of the voice.

She was long, long as he was tall, black as night without stars or moon, yet deep as the calm ocean. The pale rays of sunlight peeking through the clouds shone on her edge with glorious beauty, her hilt three handed, odd for her light, curved blade, yet inviting leverage and strength over the niceties of leaping around a fight.

He reached to her, grabbing her by the hilt with the gentle touch of a seducer, before drawing her from the dirt, the mire staining her tip sliding off like water, leaving her blade whole and sharp… almost transcendentally pristine even after laying naked in the bloody dirt, soaking it into herself.

The Ronin's numbed fingers seemed to heat as he ran them down her wet back.

She was simply… bewitching, a woman with skin like burnished copper and insides like oiled silk would not compare in the slightest, he only wanted to stand there and hold her more, her touch sending shivers through his body.

The Ronin's senses seemed to sharpen, his hand already tucking her to his side as he glanced to a hollow that had managed to creep up on him, the intrusion sparking anger in the frail, near starved fighter as the rotted warrior grunted and heaved his blade to the side, swinging it erratically.

The nameless fighter, as his name had vanished long ago, swung in retort, letting a feral growl escape him lips as he savagely rent the hollow's armor, the steel plates splitting like paper under her bite and sending it's corrupted black blood splashing to the ground.

They were both far from fighting shape, but she had a longer reach and a latent power that had only grown more violent in its age, the Ronin raising her again and grasping in both hands, slashing down and watching the hollow split from his shoulder to navel, the blade halting in his unworthy hands.

He pulled the blade back, the hollow stumbling, before finally getting finished off with a slash through the hip, finally halving him, another hollow coming behind him. The Ronin felt ripples of power through his body as the blade tasted blood, lunging for the hollow as the rotten warrior jabbed his spear forward. The fatigued Ronin nearly stepped around it, the blade lancing his side, only propelling him into a thrust that split the hollow's brain in his skull.

The Ronin pulled the head out, wincing and falling forward a little as some of the last drops of his blood left him. He'd seen the darkest the land could become, and it had left him beaten and battered, his form more staggering than walking as he took her sheath and stumbled down the hill, looking to hide in the wilderness, replenish his strength.

But, he was no longer afraid. She was his now, his and no-one else's, his own special mistress in this wreckage of humanity. He would clothe her in his sheath, defend her from rust and ruin, and above all, he would make sure to feed her the dishonorable blood of his enemies… as much as she desired.

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><p>The world is a ruin, but then again, the world is a ruin built upon a ruin, all the way down into the earth until you hit nothingness itself, some period long ago forgotten and uncared for. But, here is a ruin especially spectacular terror.<p>

In a land of giants, far across the sea, is a swirling maelstrom of fire and life. There were some naïve enough to think a bed of life would be the first thing a wounded, nearly dead world needed, especially to weather the darkness that had held the land for so long, but the flame had a life of its own: it sought to corrupt and devour all it could grasp from the hellish underbelly of the world, craving souls and lives.

This corruption rose in the form of great, twisted abominations that knew only death. They devoured, they matured, copulated, then devoured more as they spread. Numerous men and woman, perhaps innumerable, both from mankind and the stone giants that seemed to have roamed the plain hills and gentle woods since time immemorial, had fought against them with great strength and determination.

But, the demons were nearly invincible, and seemed to be infinite in number, numerous small fiefs and villages attempting to fight back, but never coming anywhere near the Chaos as they held on by the barest threads.

And then, _he_ came.

In a quiet, unassuming little fief, people were running in terror, wailing in agony as a building was shattered, a scream that made the largest amongst them tremble roaring into the winds. The fleeing mortals looked over their shoulders at the beast that had found their way to them. It's four hind legs looked spindly and reptilian, with its great claws tilling up the ground as it skittered about, it's chitinous armor rattling as it ran for the nearest people, it's long, slender spine bending the front of it into the air so it's toothy, wide maw could gaze down on them with the burning red eyes haphazardly strewn across his flat forehead.

One turned an instant too soon, the demon's hand sweeping down and snatching him up from the ground, his screams snuffed out as he pushed him hungrily into his angular jaw and crushed him in his teeth without a pause, it's budding tongues lapping up the gore as it smacked and chewed, the long, whip-like tendrils sprouting along his sides sweeping around and grabbing all they could, pulling his hapless prey into its waiting jaws to the point where it was crushing and smacking and chewing families at a time, it's swallowing constant as it forced everything down its repulsive gullet.

Arrows, spears, and a few bolts of magic hit his sides, its armor unphased and soft underbelly nearly impossible to get at as the engine of feeding and carnage kept up relentlessly. It charged down, ravenous, stopping only when it saw something it was not prepared for.

People, as few as they were, were running in all directions, searching for weapons and armor, or just away from the demon, even if they lost the very few possessions in their shanty huts it was better than their lives, as they were human thus vulnerable. One, solitary figure, shoulder high with most of the adults and slender as a rail, was simply standing, motionless.

His scruffy, overgrown blonde hair hid his expression from the distorted gaze of the monster, but he seemed still and motionless as stone, his posture rigid and battle-scarred despite his young age, a small straghtsword grasped in one hand, lightly trembling.

The beast roared so loud, the figure could feel it from down the dusty path, rattling him to the core, a small flinch appearing at the edge of his gaze. The monster charged him, shaking the earth with his gait, the distance closing in moments as he swung his claws down-

The boy jumped away, the claws racking down his front, causing slight bleeding but leaving him unphased as the beast stumbled forward, the small fighter lunging towards him and tearing into him with his swift blade. The demon let up a roar and leapt back, sending a tendril to crush him, the fighter grabbing the appendage and pulling it taught, slashing it off with the edge of his blade, the beast roaring and flailing towards him.

The smaller warrior stepped around his lunging arm, bracing his hand behind his blade and dragging it down the ragged skin, splitting his arm open with a howl of effort, the demon withdrawing it and coming around to stamp him with the palm of his other arm, bringing his full crushing force with him.

The child took a single bound backward, the dirt at his feet getting blasted into his face, his bones rattling from the sheer force, queuing him to drive his sword into the back of his hand, where the wrist met the palm, the demon struggling to pull back as the young man dug his heels into the ground and drug his sword to the side, the blade severing tendons and muscles-

With a crack, one of his whip-like tendrils batted the young man in the side, the fighter coughing a glob of blood as he felt a deep pain in the side of his crest, his breathing getting harder, his whole body thrashing to the side as he finished slicing through the wrist with a crunch, the beast staggering and moaning as its hand dangled limply from his arm by a few tendons, the warrior bounding in with a howl-

He lurched as he was speared through the gut with the tip of a vine, the best wrapping a second around his midsection and hoisting him up to that maw, gore blasting him in the face as the angular trap came open and overtook in his vision, the small warrior flipping himself upside down and slicing-

The tendrils severed, the young man falling, flipping upright as he was smashed in the side with the beast's free arm.

His head went numb, dots overtaking his vision as he flew through the air, making him feel light as wind, until he came crashing down, his body crashing against the side of a building and slumping onto haphazard awning meant to keep out the sun.

His whole side hurt, everything hurt as he felt a cold seep into the side of his head, a ring rising so high he feared it would drive him deaf as he looked to the injured beast, who, in a fit of rage, bit his useless hand off with a jerk of his head, his remaining few tendrils reaching out as he rampaged forward, opening his mouth wide and leaning down to eye level with the awning.

The young man saw his one good arm and two good legs, the other things near useless to him right now. When the demon prepared to bite down, he jumped forward with all the strength he had to give, taking the pressure off his chest and arm and springing upon his head, the beats lunging up in surprise.

The young man let go, letting the force beneath him carry him up, kicking down and getting sent skyward once again, free of the ground. The demon looked up to him, and he looked down on the demon, feeling free as he brought his blade down, seeing the edge would not hold up and angling the tip down, falling through the air, past the clumsy tendrils at his target and thrashing-

His stroke drove the tip of his blade into the skull of the demon, his body seeming to hold itself by the hilt of his blade an instant before he dropped, all the warrior's focus on his hand- _grip the blade- hold it with all you have- don't let it go-_ even as his shoulder pulled up to a parallel with his legs with a sickening crunch that went to the core of his guts, the iron blade splitting the bone open and collapsing into that twice-forsaken mouth, ripping through the mouth into the jaw, separating the mandibles and shredding his gullet, the force of the world pulling that blade down his front and opening his throat, then his trachea and stomach, stopping only when the young man's feet smashed the earth to its bedrock, jarring him to a halt as he pulled the blade from the slit.

An ocean of blood spilt from the demon to greet the young warrior, his eyes squinting to evade being blinded by it as the demon bent in half, its split skull facing the sky as it unleashed it's last death throe, chocking on its own blood and coming out as an unearthly gurgling, until it begun to smolder, exploding into fire and burning into nothingness.

It's energy flowed into the young man in a flood as it disintegrated into the air, revitalizing him as he dropped his blade. He hurt. Everywhere he hurt, his arms hanging limply at his sides as his ankles tried to balance his weight, blood trailing from the sides of his mouth as he labored heavily, sure he pierced a lung with one of his rib, likely more. He couldn't walk, so he just stood still, a ripple of anxiety going up his spine as the people came from hiding, everyone silent, yet screaming to him.

No-one wanted anywhere near him, the young, half-dead man slumped in place, when a pair of boots entered focus, his eyes remaining averted. He imagined, based on the size and his brashness, that he was a large, muscular man, at least quadruple his age or more, wearing Dark Age armor, meaning it was a soldier. This was only made clearer by his gruff, commanding and faintly condescending tone:

"What is your name, kid?" He hurt. So much he didn't want to speak, but stopped breathing, gathering his strength to sigh out a plain:

"Andraste"

"Well, Andraste." The soldier nodded, taking him roughly by his dislocated left shoulder, though he bit his tongue as not to yelp, "It looks like this is the start of something very interesting, for all of us."

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><p>"Water," A long, rugged voice like a dying hen wheezed, "All I need is water." Not a single eye turned her way, as everyone was thirsty. And tired, and hungry. It seemed the only thing in plentiful supply was misery as they made their way around the makeshift shanty town, slumped over and dreading their turn deep in the bowels of the earth, excavating hunks of iron to turn into weapons, armor, and housing, assuming it could be purified with the minimal tools they had.<p>

But, that was their own fault in a way. To escape from the horrors of the dead, distorted world, many humans fled high into the mountains, far from the wilderness or civilization to protect themselves, settling into stout buildings hewn from boulders and caves under the ground, waiting for the hard times to pass.

Dark creatures and demons left them alone for the most part, but, the flat they settled upon was barely habitable: only the heartiest meats and plants could survive, with periotic trips made far from the settlement to the wilderness for more food, nutrition, and water.

Most made it back, some didn't.

The heat was sweltering even in the dead of winter, ashlands stretching for miles and miles with cascades of lava and looming mountains as far as anyone could see. For a few that was the sight they had seen since birth, their inheritance as it were.

The people there grew up tough, harsh, and unbendable, like the iron they dug from the ground. The volcanos around them seemed to dredge up a limitless supply of minerals and iron to work with. Some even thought to themselves if they could just get enough to forge some good armor and weapons, perhaps they could escape and found a kingdom somewhere nice and cool, where they could see the sun through the endless smog and ash, where there were animals, and wildlife, even some of the scant survivors of the near total destruction of the human race would bring comfort.

It was barely passable as such a prestigious thing as "kingdom", for they had only one "king" figure.

Speaking of, some of the frail, ash dusted figures turned to their leader, the king, looking away more from fear and distaste than politeness to his stature as the armored figure plodded along, a few guards lazily watching their feet as they shuffled behind him, more a formality than anything else.

Chlodovech Kunigunde. At the start, there were numerous "noble" figures vying for the lead. With time, their numbers thinned and all of the would-be leaders died off, often to insurrections and their own greedy bid for power, plots that sprung upon themselves and would be victims that survived long enough to take the lives of would be assassins. In an age of darkness and anarchy, people show their true nature.

That is why Chlodovech had survived as a monarch for this long. He was young, barely into his twenties, his rule legitimized by some clan that went hollow and extinct long ago, the last vestige of his noble lineage a set of fairly plain steel armor and a large mace to fight with, plus the skills to use both.

He was more of a masterless knight than a king. In the previous era no-one would follow this unassuming, dull young man with barely a direction or strength to his name. But he was the leader they needed, for now: he was humble in appearance and practice, gentle when he needed to be, and firm when he wanted to be, soft spoken to children and ferocious and loud with adults. And above all, he had ambition.

Granted, he preached a frail, threadbare plan that did little more than moralize the people around him, if only slightly, but his thoughts were on bettering the lives of his people, and he delivered it with such iron resolve people couldn't help but stay together through the crisis.

As he made his usual rounds, he heard a sob, turning towards a young girl and stopping his guards, who nearly ran into him with their absentmindedness. Feeling a pain in his heart, he walked to her, kneeling down and hoping that, perhaps, the sight of her king would be of some comfort, though even he doubted himself most of the time.

"What's the matter?" He murmured softly, his firm voice echoing from the mess of reddish, frizzy hair he tried without success to comb down, her soft eyes rising to meet his. She sniffed:

"Mister, I'm afraid." She replied softly, Chlodovech giving a long, sad sigh and embracing her tightly, the faint scruff on his cheeks scratching hers, making her twitch a bit, though it was only because it tickled a little.

"Me too," he mumbled, squeezing tighter, like he could anchor himself to the world through her, "me too." He stood again, continuing his rounds and noting that each day, more life seemed to bleed from the miniscule settlement. If they only had armor, and weapons, something to take back the wilds to feed themselves and to grow…

But, it would take a miracle, it would seem, a miracle the lesser king was increasingly doubting would ever come.

But, in their infinite sense of humor, the gods did send them a miracle, but, this was not a miracle in the form of a transcendent ray of light, as Chlodovech thought. It was a tremor in the ground.

Long before the thought of an earthquake came to him, the king was knocked from his feet as the earth seemed to erupt in a great blast, a clap like thunder, which he hadn't heard in a great period of time, shaking his small world.

He clutched his head, Chlodovech struggling to stay lucid as the whoosh of a firestorm swept around him, though it didn't little to stop the rattle of his bones as he was shaken terribly. It passed slowly, the king getting back on his feet, when he heard the most fatal words known to their sorry community:

"That came from the mine!" Chlodovech was running before he even thought to, the king's lungs heavily laboring in the ashen air as everyone available ran to the mouth of the cave, a smoke so thick and black you could write with it if there were only a quill sticky enough.

He plunged into the smoke, the ether burning his eyes red and salty and he staggered though the caves, the other's just behind as they worked their way into the depths. He dreaded whatever he may see ahead of the torches and candles they brought with them, imagining all the horrors that could lie at the bottom, emerging from the dark.

His fantasies did not prepare him as he scrambled over the soot and sediment covering the grey halls, coming to the end of the corridor. The miners that had been working there were barely distinguishable, red gore liquefied and spewed onto the walls in swathes of paste, their bones smoldering charred and ashen.

Despite the suffocating clouds, the king lowered his hand form his mouth, his eyes widening and breath shortening as he cringed from the remnants of his people, bile rising in his throat as the viscera touched him… actually touched him, the king getting panicked as the other's filed in by him.

As he staggered through, hearing the moans of his people, he heard something else, rising from the throat of the earth that they had dug open, leading him on. His breath, now rasping and heaving as the sweltering bubble scorched his insides, was once again taken by what lay before him, freed from the wall:

It was ore, a massive hunk of ore, but so much more than that: it was like a great, lopsided dollop of burning hot magma, the outside crusted black, yet it wasn't cooling, and as the king stepped closer to it, he realized it wasn't burning him, until he reached out with shaky hands, and pulled it from it rest.

He gazed into the broiling mass, feeling the immense heat and energy through his steel gauntlets and holding it up, focusing-

He yelped and dropped the mass as it flared up, the heat wave knocking him back as it fell to the floor, rolling to a stop as it smoldered in its place.

Chlodovech had an affinity for metal. It was a rare gift, many would even say unique to him alone, and he had tried to help his people with it as he discovered it growing up, faintly remembering his lessons in the old kingdom.

But he had never seen anything like this. It was as though the earth itself had concentrated the power of the mountains into this one sliver of a rock, its power lying in wait to be released.

The king blinked. It reeked of death, it had burnt his people with the force of its energy. But, what could a man do with unlimited power… unlimited heat and energy… just waiting to be unleashed.

While he mourned their deaths, it seemed as though the minor's sacrifice would not go unrewarded, as the king coveted the scorching earth, his mind aglow with all the possibilities, all the work that could be accomplished with this blessed iron slab.

They backed away from him as the king strode down the way, cradling the precious wonder of science. From this day forward, everything was going to change.


	2. Souls of the Ineffable

"How much further must I go?" The Ronin muttered to himself, finding his voice as he continued to stagger down the endless path. Long ago, the rotting, cobblestone path, overtaken with weeds and slowly breaking apart under the pressure of the vines creeping through the crevices, served as a trade route for the west, the imprints of oxen still marking its surface.

Now, all was still. Even the hollows that had overtaken the world in the last age were going still from the lack of souls to feed them, or had simply dispersed so that the Ronin was seeing fewer and fewer. Good riddance, a sign things were getting better.

But, it was still miserable making his way across the ruins of the civilization alone. No goods, services, or even company to help break up the trip, just a mindless waltz far to west, as she faintly sensed the opportunity to spill blood there as order slowly returned to the land. But, how far he had to go until he found a reasonable settlement to call home was still impossible to say.

At least he could now hunt with her, she seemed to enhance his power: stronger, faster, sharper. Even having to chase his prey down or take it by surprise, he usually caught what he needed to.

He heard a rustle of leaves to the side, pausing a moment and grabbing her near the base of the guard, ready to draw at any moment. He still wore the same filthy, tattered robes as before, the fabric tangling on him and drooping into his face, but he didn't wish to lower his hood just yet.

Concealing the face made it easier to conceal hollowing, which could be of use, whether against hollows or other humans.

He concentrated on the dense, still rows of foliage, considering that maybe a stray animal had wandered a little too close, yet, he sensed a disturbance in the air, before he drew on reflex, her blade sweeping around behind him split seconds before he felt the knifepoint pierce his throat-

He froze, as did she, his eyes focusing on the figure. How stupid had he been to fall for such a simple ploy: the figure intentionally throwing him off, before falling into his blindspot and closing the distance. His sleek, jet-black blade nearly lanced his trachea, but she had found the edge of his throat before the warrior could finish his lunge, his muscles tense, ready to spring in for the kill, so rigid he shook with anticipation.

In fact, the edges of his face seemed to twitch as well, his dark rouge eyes dilated so wide they became black orbs rimmed with fire, his paled, scarred face twitching with a wide, insane grin, uttering a nervous giggle that shook his spiked black hair, though the motion rubbed her against his neck, which only seemed to spur him on.

With one motion they sprung back from one another, the Ronin rubbing at his throat, but only finding a superficial mark, while the mad warrior continued to giggle uncontrollably.

"Oh, that was a close on," his thick, jittery voice ground out, "a little more and- I would've died, that sword of yours, it's pretty slick," he laughed hoarsely, noticeably hunching down with a pained look from the prolonged exertion.

"Who are you?" The Ronin snapped, preparing her to strike, if need be. Though, it was clear the madman was lost, not only by his mood but his outfit, which aside from the two short, broad katanas at his side was that of a primal man: layers of roughly slaughtered and trimmed animal pelts stitched together with reed and twine, offering little more than protection from the cold and wind. The mad warrior refocused his attention on the Ronin:

"Nergui, what about you, mister samurai?"

"I'm… Alone."

"Alone?" He laughed, coughing a few times in the thick, chill air, "Is that your only name?" The Ronin thought a moment,

"It's the only one that matters right now." Alonne snapped, closing the argument, "I am headed west, you're in my way."

"Hey! It just so happens I'm heading that general direction to." Alonne curled his lip, returning her to his sheath with a click and continuing on, Nergui sauntering after him a few paces before the Ronin paused, "You aren't coming with me."

"Hey, I'm not following you, I just want to go, where you happen to be going."

"You tried to cut my head off,"

"It was an honest mistake, don't be a prude about it." Alonne sighed, keeping his ears open as the mad warrior continued after him at a safe distance snickering and humming a tune to himself. Anyone that could sneak up on them was too dangerous to fight, especially since he had no way to heal his injuries or cure disease if anything got infected, that and it would be useful having a second set of eyes and blades when they started crossing bandit country, or ran into any monsters. Still, it was fairly clear the relationship would be strictly short term, and at the first sign of a betrayal he would draw her to put an end to it.

* * *

><p>"My lady." The Princess of Sunlight barely acknowledged he was there, the golden knight standing resolute, watching her as she gazed to the great tower of flame, its beacon shining strong, even though it was almost all that was left of Londomere.<p>

They had crossed the ocean ages before, fleeing the death of their world, finding a coastal inlet, the high walls defending them from the winds and weather, rendering invasion almost impossible, as the land provided an undeniable tactical advantage, even though their army was greatly reduced in strength.

All it took was a great quake, the earth collapsing the fragile pillars and sending with it a great wave to wash whatever didn't collapse into the sea. The last of their people… erased.

The princess was taking it especially hard, as the last family she had, Flann, was separated from her, and drowned.

Gwynevere gazed at the monument, a sorrow the depths of which the knight could not fathom clouding her usually clear, fair eyes, shaking as the captain of her knights, the very last servant of her father the king, took her by the shoulders, her form reduced to more easily navigate the land, which the knight still stood tall.

"Princess," he waited for her to acknowledge his presence. She did not, "I must get you to safety, you are the last of Lordran's royalty. If you die, our kingdom will be lost." Searching back, it was already lost: a dull, dead fragment of ash adrift in time, waiting to finally be scattered and cease to exist altogether.

He let her go, his hands falling limp at his side, his grieves, the color of polished brass like gold, shuffling uneasily in the puddle of rainwater, not even dried from the event that brought them to extinction just hours ago, his focus turning to admire the rough, eroded white path beneath him.

It should have been him. He should have stayed in Anor Londo, even against the wishes of Gwyn. He should have been the one to march into the Abyss, it should have been him. When Gwyndolin commissioned a marionette in his image to give some faint mockery of power, he should have sent that to defend his Lord's daughter.

Then, Ornstein would have likely died to the hollowing land, and been spared the crushing depths of his shame. He was not strong enough to protect them, even when he stayed behind as his comrades stormed the Abyss, their noble sacrifice was in vain because he could not save them from annihilation, here, in this foreign place, far from the fire they gave everything to keep alive.

Living with that was a fate worse than death. But, he had his princess, that was all…

He heard the all too familiar sound of pebbles being kicked into the sea,

"My Lady?" He uttered as his head shot up, in time to see the flowing white robes of the princess disappearing over the edge of the crumbling path, his arm reaching out as he sprung towards her, his feet booming as they propelled him over the rocks like ice-

**-*Wake Up*-**

Ornstein's eyes snapped open, his entire body lurching in agony as he sprung up from his rest, his fingers wrenching down on his spear, his senses so alert for danger it was near transcendental, before he calmed, settling down in the dark, empty little hovel he had managed to find to shelter himself.

There was nothing he could do to fight back what had already happened long, long ago. It seemed his strength, or at least what was left of it, was only continuing to fade, anyway. The brilliant gold of his armor, jagged and elegant like plated lightning, was growing burnished and dull, his long, great spear slowly losing it's like, the lightning overbrimming from growing harder to draw out.

Was this, then, what it meant to hollow? Humans were little more than skittering ants: they chewed at the fabric of society and the giants themselves, spitting it out and piling it on itself to build their own civilization, though infinitely more frail and disorderly than that of his King, always squabbling for power and prestige, but never coming close to the greatness of the Lords.

When they turned undead, they became kindling for the fires, a service to the world desperately needed. But now, in his dying breaths, the Old Dragonslayer wondered if this feeling of emptiness consuming him, a yearning for what he could no longer have, was that what it meant to feel human?

Would he awaken one day to find that everything he was, was no more?

He shook his head, the Leonine helm seeming to convey a sad, drowned kitten more than the proud beast it once was. He would not fade… he could not. Even with all he knew gone, he would not be known as the last knight of Gwyn, the Last Knight of Lordran, and end his tail whimpering in the dark, awaiting death.

He stood from his rest, using the butt of his spear for support as he slowly ambled for the gaping door of his makeshift home, feeling plain ancient. Though, now that he considered it, his soul was drawn from the First flame itself. He had lived to see the birth of the first civilization of the Age of Light. It was getting harder to remember just how many years old he truly was, though how he felt depended on his resolve to go on.

Again, like those humans…

Ornstein looked about the dead ruins of his city from its highest point, the grand cathedral that served as both their center of prayer, and an archive of their history. He had taken refuge in one of the tenants, though it was so empty he may as well have been in one of the hovels far below. The great ivory spires reached to the skies, the distinct architecture preserved through the ages. He supposed that this place was his, now, as he was the only one alive to retain it, alone.

Even the bright, cloudless sky could not warm his heart as the sun glinted from him, Ornstein conceding to go back inside, when he spotted a troupe of men coming down from the cliffs, towards the outskirts of the city, his feet digging into the ground as they wandered, small specks in the distance from his view, but unmistakable.

It had been a long time since the ruined kingdom had received any visitors, as the age of dark drove them near extinction with each cycle, and they had concealed their realm from them long enough to be forgotten altogether by the few survivors.

He stuck to observing for a moment, his weary soul getting angered by their intrusion. Did they mean to pillage the remnants of Lordran? Did they hope to somehow glean some great power from their deaths? The Old Dragonslayer assumed it was in their nature, but was unsure of how to approach. Was it even worth the fight, in the end?

His faint thoughts were interrupted by a shrill shriek on the wind, his entire body stiffening. He stayed alert for it, looking around, when he heard it again, cringing as the great wings beat over the ramparts of Londomere, gazing up at the long, slender figure of Drake, it's leathery wings beating on the wind as it soared past the decaying buildings, seeming to have missed the knight as he was standing downwind, the serpentine form darting for the figures of the humans it was no doubt hunting.

The Dragonslayer felt a force brew within him, a strong feeling of want and nostalgia breaking through him. It was nothing compared to the dragons of old, but still, it had been ages since he'd hunted a winged beast like that.

In an instant, he was returned to somewhere a long time ago: he would be standing her, on a clifftop, an army standing under the grey, formless sky, at his right hand would be Artorias, the strongest man he had ever met, towering over him, Ciaren and her Lord's Blades awaiting the call to poison the dragon, the immense form of Gough and his great rows of archers ready to down the beasts as they flew over the lowlands, baited in advance.

Those were the days…

Ornstein gripped his ranseur in a way he hadn't in a long time, some of his spirit returning to him in waves. He couldn't help but wonder if he still had it in him, after all this time…

He started off at a short jog, but found his stride and begun to pick up his momentum, until his feet were hammering the ground, pressing him onward. The path seemed too long, Ornstein's eyes darting to the side and finding a rooftop far below, leaping from the path and freefalling over the air,

His wondrous soul was under his absolute control, Ornstein, sending a great pulse of raw power from his feet into the air, going from a freefall to a rough fall down towards the land below, the old dragonslayer panicking as he found his glide uncharacteristically uneven and lopsided, stumbling from the air and landing hard of the ceiling, frontflipping to his feet to dissipate the force, running down the rooftop and leaping to the next with a sharp burst.

He already felt tired from the jog, regretting he'd allowed himself to get so woefully out of shape in his melancholy, yet still feeling fairly free as he moved with speed towards the winged beast, which he could tell by the movements of his wings was attacking the people in his path. He stumbled, dropping to his stomach and grinding to a halt, standing again and making his way forward, trying not to get distracted, instead focusing on how powerful he was in the past, and how he achieved it.

At last he came over the final rise, hearing the sounds of combat as he readied his Ranseur, the clash of swords and grind of metal as they attempted to hack at the drake awakening the Old Dragonslayer as he searched out a weakspot, zeroing on the joint that controlled it's wing as it flapped several times to try and take to the air, breathing in and exhaling a great burst of flame.

Ornstein was a specialist in close range combat, but Gough had taught him how to hit a moving target at a distance well, the Old Dragonslayer placing both hands on his spear and concentrating on the great ember used to empower it, great swathes of power erupting from it with a noticeable hum as the lightning erupted from the prongs at the edges and danced over the ivory tip.

The sudden blinding light attracted the drake as his firebreath was ceased, the Old Dragonslayer thrusting forward, the oblong orb of lightning tracing from the tip and streaking for the scaly hide of the beast. It swung left to fly away, the lightning tearing over the scales near his chest, leaving his wing intact at it growled and flew to the side for a strafing run, sheets of burnt scales peeling from his smoldering flesh.

The dragonslayer panted, feeling a substantial amount of pressure on his body, cursing himself for ever allowing himself to grow so frail and sloppy as the drake swung around, unleashing his fire breath, Ornstein diving to the side and hitting the ground below roughly as the firestorm scorched the stone roof, the drake landing on another building and watching the dragonslayer with hunger and curiosity.

Ornstein tried to remember his training, fuzzy as it was, the Drake leaping from the roof and shaking the ground as it flew for the dragonslayer, mouth open. The gold knight hunkered to the ground, a gesture that felt most familiar to him, his heart nearly giving as the drake blew up in his vision.

Just as his teeth snapped for him, Ornstein leapt from the ground, flying over his head and landing clumsily on his back, driving the tip of his spear in to keep his balance, earning a howl from the drake as he dug his grieves in to steady himself.

He searched out a weakspot, jumping for the spine between his two wings and driving his spear in once more, a jostle sending it to the side, Ornstein again cursing how messy his attacks had become, but pouring all his lightning into the tip so he wouldn't lose the opportunity to do damage, the drake roaring as Ornstein twisted the blade, injecting the great spears of lightning deep into the mid of his back, the scales peeling away as the flesh burnt up and the muscles around his wings seized, the behemoth finally dropping from the air.

They hit the ground hard, grinding to a halt with so much force even the great Ornstein had to hunker down as he was shaken to the bones and nearly ejected. But, his prey was on the ground, the Old Dragonslayer readying a final push as the drake lifted his head, turning it to snap at him, Ornstein jumping to the crook of his neck to avoid the teeth, leaping one more time into the air and driving his blade downward.

A final growl escaped the scaly beast as his head was severed, blood pouring from the neck as the Dragonslayer leapt back, in case he sent a final thrash to crush him.

Instead, he went still, dying off, Ornstein feeling the rush of the kill flooding his senses. It had been ages since he'd felt so alive… so complete.

Even if the kill was clumsy and hackneyed compared to what he could do at his prime, the beast was still dead, the accomplishment enough to overlook how devoid of finesse it was. His momentary rush of accomplishment was cut short when the humans closed in on him, Ornstein raising his spear in defense.

It was a vain gesture, though: he was completely wiped out, and with his combat skills severally worn he doubted he could hold them all off, when what he assumed to be the strongest amongst them came forward, mystified:

"So the legend is true," he awed, "There was a nation of giants here." Ornstein nodded,

"Yes, but I am the last." He added woefully, "if you think you can pillage this land you are sadly mistaken, human." He growled, raising his guard as some of the knights came forward. The king raised his hand to halt them,

"You fight with great strength, Sir Knight. We come from a land in the south, we've been trying to find a place of our own to settle. Times are changing: kingdoms are starting to rise, and we want to be right there-"

"And you think you can covet my peoples advances?" Ornstein growled, "We were worshipped as gods, you dull creature, you are owed nothing of ours." He continued on, increasingly furious, "had you not tampered with the father of man none of this would have happened!" But, it was lost on them, as it had happened long before their time, Ornstein realized, the king clarifying:

"I can tell you are upset with us, I do not know why," he offered, "but, this country is no more: there are many people starving, dying. They need food and protection, and the tales speak of wondrous and powerful weapons, armors, and advances, all by you!" he pined, "I am offering you the chance to join with us, and make a strong country once again. Is that not a worthy enough cause?" The old dragonslayer bayed from inside his helm, slowly relaxing.

There was nothing left to save, and, though he would take it to his grave, the feeling of serving these humans seemed far more fulfilling than fading into the dust, as he had been.

"Alright," Ornstein growled, lowering his weapon, "but, if you settle here, you are going to obey _my _customs."

* * *

><p>Older than Chaos is the Dark. It had existed throughout the ages, concealed from mankind since its father was struck down by a wandering fighter long ago, the eternal darkness sitting inert, gradually dissipating as its sources of power were cut.<p>

Whether the ancient chasm, pooled with profound darkness, has a will all its own, or is merely a nest for the creatures of Dark that inhabit it may never be known, but the ineffable spirit of the Dark Soul which created it still lingers on, preserving the spirit of Manus.

But, this spirit, reflecting the Abyss, or even the other way around, is shattered now, noting but whisperings of the Father. Or at least, they were.

One by one, in the rubbish heap of humanity, the remnants of the Abyss began to come together, gravitating towards the spirits of the Abyss, each one exerting a pull of their own. The first was a splinter, the barest, faintest notion of a thought, so frail that it feared it may simply blink from existence, the lone figure making its way from the depths, clinging to herself as her body slowly took shape, the entire time feeling her essence being pulled back.

The second, believed to be the smallest of the shards, was a different creature entirely…

She was the Father's weakest, but entire thought, so it came as little surprise that she was the first to assume a complete form, the woman dragging herself from the ether pooled around her, concentrating on condensing the energy of the souls into a shade, then a gelatinous mass, then a brittle, small body, and finally, as she stood, a grown young woman.

Her eyes blinked, her gaze sweeping over the depths, taking some time to adjust as she took a few shaky steps, falling a few times as she accustomed herself to the absolute darkness. Even as a solid entity, she felt more suspended in death than alive, her sight rapidly coming into focus in the chambers.

Miles underground, there was no light, not a single ray of sun had ever pierced the depths, leaving the walls barren, not even mosses grew in the dank, musty caverns, flows of ancient rainwater and condensation flowing down the walls in great rivers and waterfalls through the chasm's immense system of caves, pits that went down hundreds of meters perforating the floor around the land bridges and underground rises, making it hazardous to step for the child of Dark as she crawled down the way, soaking in the Dark to nurture herself.

Despite her tall, buxom figure, she was still a mere infant, naked, without any experiences, or even a name. Her only guide was the whispers of the Father, in the form of the memories he had accumulated, and even those seemed far removed from her.

With her hands and knees scuffing the damp floor, clarity suddenly came to her, the child of dark making a stronger effort to stand up, humiliation at the position taking hold. All at once she felt small and insignificant, panting hard as she looked around the endless Dark. She needed more strength, so much more, it was like a hole had appeared behind her navel, devouring her from the inside.

With force she drew in the essence of the Abyss, the energy so thin it barely nurtured her, when her eyes saw why:

Above, her "sisters" were forming from the ether themselves. None of them had assumed a human form yet, but she could _feel _the level of force they generated as they gathered. The next one down from her was a massive orb or darkness, convulsing and shifting wildly with unbridled power, a shade forming within, while the largest loomed high in the chasm, blotting the Child's sight like great black star, and nowhere near finished.

If the first thing she felt was humiliation, than the second was envy. She had malformed: she should have stayed up there, soaked in so much dark as to become a nebula. What was she so small? What had happened to her?

She sniffed, a deep chill settling on her as she stood in the dark. She was in human form, it was uncertain how to adjust it, but she needed warmth, and water, and food. She felt tired, but couldn't sleep, her head swimming with the vulnerability she uncovered.

In her limp, nude form, the Child of Dark fled the depths, setting her eyes forward. They had stolen the power of the Abyss for themselves, but, she could still find greater strength elsewhere.

Unbeknownst to her, on the other side of the Dark Chasm of Old, another figure winked into existence. He breathed in the dark, a deep relief flooding him. He was a young man, still fresh from the Age of Dark, silently regretting that it had taken him this long, so long that dark was waning once more.

He knew it was here, from all the tales and the rumors, he knew he would one day find the Chasm, the very birthplace of man and dark. He held a small, pale branch in hand, putting his arm out and focusing on a spell, the tip of the staff bursting in a ball of light that slowly circled around him.

In the absolute dark, as a mere man, he could not see, but the dark was such that his spell only illuminated the purity of the emptiness: the ceiling stretching up so high he could not see it, the walls opening into grander and grander chasms within the great trench where the dark eroded the earth away, leaving a bed that encompassed the entire region, the soft blue ball shining on the waterfalls around him as he stepped carefully around the pitfalls.

He made no sound, feeling suspended as though in a dream as he glided down the great chasm, as he had to enter the depths as a phantom, through a secret ritual site he had spent from a toddler to his adolescence searching for.

He felt as though he had finally found his home, but knew it would still take a great period of time to uncover the rue depths of the Dark, let alone understand it.

But, that was not his mission, it was too soon, he had a particular task in mind as he stepped through the Chasm, being the first man in centuries to traverse the Dark. As he wondered, he encountered other phantoms like himself, the Child cowering from them, as the ancient beings still looked as deadly as ever: the spirits of man being drawn back to the birthplace itself.

Then, he found who he was searching for, the luminescent, deep violet figure looking towards the mortal as the Child came to him, casting another orb of light as it faded.

There was no way to tell who it was after all this time, but it didn't take long to assume that the spirit in the Abyss was one of the long-lost Dark Magicians, the practice now extinct in the waking world, his black robes hung with old, elegant adornments around the soft yet toughened fabric, a hood obscuring his face while his hand cradled a chime soaked in dark, it's metal polished smooth by its use.

"Who are you?" the spirit spoke, his voice echoing in the emptiness, though it was a little hard to hear him over the roar of the water sweeping past them on both sides. The Child felt his heart skip around, his voice shaking with excitement:

"Grandahl." The spirit narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the young man,

"What brings you here, to this pit?"

"The Dark." Grandahl spoke, firmly, "The light, it just blinks in, then out, always fading, everything is always fading. I want the Dark." The spirit blinked, then laughed, it's deep echo bellowing over the stones, disturbing other spirits, though they dared not approach the ancient wizard.

"You are young, human." He spoke, "You do not even understand what the dark is. It took a lifetime for me, and most of what I learned was from within this chasm. I have still not seen the true depths of the Dark, it's power is too great for me to see: I see the abandoned trinkets of those who tried before me, but they never made it."

"Then teach me," Grandahl insisted, "They do not understand. The world needs the Abyss, now more than ever. I want to show them, but…" he trailed off, some traumas too great to repeat. The ancient Dark magician sighed, contemplating. He had never even taken a pupil, certain that the knowledge he had then, let alone now, would be too great for them to process. But, perhaps that is exactly why he needed to convey it now, now that his knowledge was so much more… complete.

"Are you prepared to let go everything you know of the world, and embrace the Dark? The Abyss overwhelms and destroys all who take it too lightly."

"If I am not ready, then I will be."

"Very well" He rose, stretching his tired bones and giving his chime a rough rattle, sending sparks of soul energy from its tip, "I am Gilleah, the Hexer. I will me your mentor, until you reach your limit. And you will, they always do."

Gilleah faded, Grandahl watching the chasm melt away into nothing around him…

He awoke with a start, his heart jumping in his chest as he caught his breath, taking a deep inhale and retching as his conscious form was dropped back into his body, the violent transition from phantom form to living body especially hard since it was his very first time.

Nonetheless, his entire body tingled with excitement. Whereas most had a spark of light, and some had a wondrous flame, Grandahl carried a splinter of dark. It translated in his aura: an unsettled feeling of power that drove everyone away, leaving him alone, and without any words to describe how he felt, that he was still human.

"They will understand…" Grandahl nodded, taking a precious human effigy and burning it for the abyss, the mouth opening again, drawing him away as his entire body went limp, projecting his conscious, "They will all understand…"


End file.
